Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all things Harry Potter.
Summary: Working on re-election is tough, especially if you're Blaise Zambini. A very short one-shot.
Heart and Soul – Moving England Forward
Blaise Zambini had worked steadfastly on his campaign for the past seven months. Now, in late October, he was down to the wire.
"Mr. Zambini, sir, the Ministry just sent us your new campaign ad, sir." Zambini stared down at the watery-eyed, pale, and slightly trembling former classmate. He smiled.
"Great, Creevy. Have it sent over immediately. Hey – how's my speech coming? Is it good?"
Colin Creevy beamed that nervous, excited, and timidly rat-like grin. "Oh yes, Mr. Zambini, sir. It's going to really grab that ten percent of undecided wizards, sir. The speech, sir, gives you so much more moral ground than Mr. Cherry, sir. And, sir, I made sure that your view on the war on muggles was made clear, sir. Anything to stop them, even if it's immoral, even if it's ugly, and even if it throws the rest of the world into chaos! Sir."
Zambini laughed. "Is it an honest speech, Creevy?"
"Oh, no sir, sir!"
"That's my boy! Hey – what's the campaign motto?"
"Using the old administration's military to fuck up the world, sir!"
Zambini laughed again, then strode down the hall. In his office, he locked the door, sunk down in his chair, picked up his campaign ad, and sighed. The ad displayed a handsome wizard, his face pale and free of wrinkles, his sun-kissed hair blown attractively around his face as he flew threw the skies on a Firebolt.
"Zambini, you old rascal," Zambini said to himself.
He looked at his watch. In ten minutes he had to be at a press junket in Nottingham. He was terribly stressed – all of the lies he had to invent about the other party had knotted up in his shoulders. Zambini flicked his tongue around in his mouth. There was only one thing that really, truly relieved all of his stress, and ten minutes was enough time to do this – ten times.
Zambini slid his pants down. They fell gracelessly to his ankles. He propped the campaign ad up, covering a picture of the English flag and a half-empty bottle of cognac. Then, watching himself fly in circles and making declarations for a morally safer England, Blaise Zambini began to wank off.
He was just reaching his climax, forty-five seconds into the act, when there was a knock on the door.
"Wha – what is it?" he cried, irate and breathless.
"Jan Coulter is here to interview you for her new book, Mr. Zambini, sir."
Shit, thought Zambini, hastily pulling up his pants. "Fine, fine, yeah, send her in."
Coulter was brilliant, and she'd be brilliant for their campaign, if she began publicizing her book before wizards hit the polls. She strode in, her blonde hair falling past her shoulders and her long face making her appear more like a PR director than a journalist. It was that homely look.
Zambini stood and shook her hand. He watched her eyebrows furrow as she tried to subtly wipe the white residue from her hand onto her black skirt. Blaise smirked and sat down.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Zambini." Zambini smiled, his eyes focusing on the campaign ad once again. He discreetly unzipped the crotch of his pants as he nodded to Jan. He was almost there still – he could feel the pulse of his searing red length and began moving his hands around the base once more. "I want to start by congratulating you on your success so far."
Zambini nodded again. He was almost there – just – a little – further. Perfect. He zipped up his pants and smiled, wiping a handful of semen off on the underside of his desk.
"So, do you really think you'll win?" Jan Coulter asked.
Blaise beamed wickedly. "Oh, Jan. I feel like we've already won."